Blame
by destinationtoast
Summary: It was all Sherlock's fault, really. At least if you ask John. (John/Sherlock/Mary - fluff, first kiss)


**JOHN**

It was all Sherlock's fault, really.

The kiss was colder than I would have expected. Wetter, and redder. Tangier. Quieter, also, than I would have expected - except for the ringing.

I mean, I say would have - but I never. Never expected. Never saw it coming at all.

Sherlock's like that, though. Does things with no warning. I suppose that's part of what I like about him. Him and Mary - they can both surprise me. Even after all this time.

Anyway. The kiss was good. Well, that's a lie. That first kiss was mostly just awkward, and I wasn't so much a participant as someone experiencing a - well, you might say a surprise attack by a barnacle. That would be about accurate. There was clinging and sucking and, well, definitely a lot of surprise. But it wasn't a bad kiss. I was trembling and weak-kneed, quite literally. Though that wasn't really Sherlock's doing, I guess. Not entirely.

I don't mean to make it sound like Sherlock's a poor kisser. He's not - I can vouch for that, now. It was more that I didn't really know how to react. I - well, I've always cared for Sherlock, as a friend, of course. And if I'd been told, "Your best mate wants to snog you" - if I'd really sat down and thought about it, I suppose I would have said, "Well, yeah, all right. I think I'd be okay with that, actually." I mean, back before I was married, obviously. But it would have taken me a while to get there. It's something you have to work out, you know? And Sherlock didn't give me a while - didn't give me any time, really. We were just suddenly attached at the lips.

And at first I didn't really notice his lips, if I'm being honest. There was the cold, and the wet, and the red, like I said. And there was the knowledge that we were being watched, of course. My heart hadn't stopped racing, from earlier, and none of that slowed it down at all.

By the time I started to really process it, he'd released me. And before I could say anything, he'd gone and done another shocking thing. I tell you, the man is full of surprises.

 **MARY**

It was John's fault. Not just in that moment, either - it had been his fault for years. John had been so obviously in love with Sherlock for ages. If he hadn't been full of undisguised yearning, it might have taken much longer. And, if John hadn't been equally clearly in denial about it - and married to me, of course - it might have happened much sooner.

But that ball of contradiction that was John Watson was exactly what got us to where we were that night. It might have been romantic, almost - the snow falling all around (well, more like sleet, but close enough), the danger over, Sherlock and John finally locking lips.

It wasn't romantic, though. It was funny, a bit - after the startlement of Sherlock lunging at John and grabbing his head, shoving their faces together. And John standing there, stiff as a board and just as responsive a kisser. Looking baffled and then terrified - glancing at me sideways to try to see how I was taking it. Sherlock doing his best, but mostly just clinging, and only starting to get kissed in return near the end.

I couldn't move at that point, much. Couldn't give the thumbs up I so desperately wanted to. And my voice was useless, of course. So I watched and tried not to laugh.

When Sherlock released John, I prepared to reassure John - and maybe Sherlock - that I was happy with this development. Before I could, though, Sherlock turned and grabbed my head. He was more gentle with me, but it was no less of a surprise.

No less of a joy, either. I'd never guessed how he felt about me, but it was one of the best surprises I've ever had. Even if I couldn't wrap my fingers through his hair and give him a proper snog. Not then.

 **SHERLOCK**

It was Mycroft's fault, obviously.

At the time, I didn't see it that way. I thought it was Mary's fault for getting herself almost killed and precipitating the whole thing. But Mary is a highly competent agent, and she would never have been hurt if Mycroft had done sufficient surveillance before sending her to break into the building.

Since the case that John and I were working on brought us to the same building that night, however, it was fortunate for us that she was there. Alone, none of the us would have survived the ambush. But together, John and Mary took out an impressive number of gunmen while I found a way out of the building. I thought we'd escaped scot-free until after we crawled outside and Mary detonated a grenade behind us, closing off the exit route.

There, in the dingy alley, ears still ringing, I realized there was too much blood - and a great deal of it was coming from Mary.

John wordlessly improvised a bandage from his shirt. I assisted until Mary took over, applying pressure with both hands to the bullet wound in her thigh. As we awaited Mycroft's extraction team, all three of us covered in Mary's blood, though I was unaware of the smears across my own face until later - it hit me like the explosion.

We could have lost her. She could have died. John would have been heartbroken. And she would have had no idea how much I cared for her.

I had to tell her. Not with words, of course - not only because speeches about emotions are not my forte, but because we still could not hear in the aftermath of the bomb. I knew it suddenly and urgently and with every fiber of my body: I had to kiss her.

If I did so, however, John would not react well. Because John was equally unaware of the depth of my feelings for him.

A simple calculation followed: kissing Mary first would cause John sensations of consternation, protectiveness, and likely anger. I might be punched before I could kiss him as well. Kissing John first would induce such confusion that he would be unlikely to halt my second kiss. And Mary - while less likely to respond with jealousy than John in the first place - was too weak to stop me from kissing her husband.

The kisses were thus very logical. And they did the necessary work, I believe, of conveying my deep regard for them both. They were not as enjoyable as the kisses we participated in later, but they fulfilled their communicative intent.

The fault, as I said, was Mycroft's. But he escaped without a lecture from me, in the end. In part because his chagrin over unexpectedly putting one of his agents at such risk was evident. And in part because the incident, which did no permanent damage to Mary, was the catalyst for such happiness. If I'd discussed the happenings of that night with Mycroft, I'd have risked exposing the fact that he'd inadvertently brought me great joy. The man is quite insufferable enough already.


End file.
